The Years of Our Lives
by mrdarcysmuse
Summary: Modern AU set in Rhode Island, NYC, London, and more. Continued from what was intended to be a one-shot. May or may not span years, fluctuate between emotional highs and lows, and involve gratuitous angst. Rated M to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Originally this first chapter was a one-shot called "Stolen", as inspired by Dashboard Confessional's song. It was meant to be a modern-day, summery version of the Christmas Special "twirling in the snow" scene with a cute, fluffy ending, but I was never one to let happiness thrive unthwarted. Thank you to everyone who deigns to read this travesty._

* * *

_Newport, Rhode Island. _

_August._

The sleek, black Lincoln lurched to a stop as its sleeping passenger flinched, sat up, and rubbed his sore eyes. The driver, a balding, middle-aged man wearing a pinstriped suit and sunglasses pulled the hand brake and turned his head around. "We're here," he announced.

Matthew Crawley, who was still sprawled on the backseat, opened his eyes tentatively and looked out the tinted windows. "It this it?"

What he saw was the Levinson family's vacation house—a Newport beach mansion in all of its fabled grandeur. The Levinsons were the relatives of his third cousin's wife, Cora, and his invitation was issued by Cora's mother, Mrs. Martha Levinson, who had single-handedly lorded over the board of directors for Levinson & Co. (shipping or manufacture; Matthew struggled to recall) ever since her husband died in a plane crash twenty-four years ago. With the Levinsons' massive fortune, the edifice before him came as no surprise at all, however much it loomed and intimidated. The house was constructed of pale marble and burgundy brick; the contrast in color perfectly complemented the long, rounded windows, French balconies, and the gilded door. There was a meandering path from the five-car garage, where the Lincoln stopped, to the house itself. The lawn was freshly cut; Matthew looked in vain for a dandelion or a weed sprouting unnoticed.

The sun was setting now, and the pale pink sunk deeper into the horizon as it was overtaken by a light indigo. Suddenly, all the windows lit up and cast a warm glow on the imminent night sky. Illuminated, the house and grounds were now prepared for the festivities that would start soon and continue to the early morning hours.

Matthew let his mind wander as he opened the car door and heaved his flagging body onto the ground. The driver was already standing by the the trunk of the car; he handed Matthew his slightly battered leather suitcase.

After shaking the driver's hand and thanking him, Matthew started walking up the long path and remembering why he was here in a stranger's house in Rhode Island, in _America, _instead of his small, but comfortable flat in London. Mrs. Levinson was a stranger to him; he was only here because she sent him the same invitation that she sent to every member of the Levinson and Crawley families, and everyone within seven degrees of separation from them.

The invitation, which was sticking out from the back pocket of Matthew's jeans, was printed on a parchment-like notecard that smelled of lavender. _Mrs. Martha Levinson requests the pleasure of your company on the occasion of a party for her granddaughter, Miss Mary Crawley. _It then went on to list the date, time, address, and phone number for the purpose of _"répondez s'il vous plaît". _Matthew had laughed his silent laughs at this effort to make a "graduation party" for Mary seem like a debutante ball from an Edith Wharton novel. When he received this invitation in the post three months ago, he had planned on expressing his regrets at "not being able to make it all the way to America", but luck so had it that his law firm wanted him in the New York office the week before the party. Here he was, walking up a foreign path, both curious and wary of seeing Mary again after they had last parted in England a year ago.

He looked at his watch as he came to the front door and pressed on the doorbell. _Seven o'clock._ The party was to start at eight.

The door swung open and Sybil Crawley's surprised smile greeted him. "Matthew! Hi! They didn't tell me you were coming! Oh, but it's so nice to see you!"

"It's been a year, and you're still as young and pretty as ever!"

Sybil laughed and hugged him, showing him inside and pulling the door shut. "So, how do you like Grandma's house?"

"Is that even a question? Well, even if it were, there's only one possible answer," Matthew grinned, lugging his suitcase up the front steps. "Is there anywhere I can put this…?"

"Of course. I'll show you to your room first, and then you can come and say hello to everyone."

"Everyone? Is that really _everyone?_"

"What do you mean? Mary's graduating from _Brown _and going off to _Oxford_! Granny even came, so of course _everyone's _here. They're all out on the deck, and I bet they'll be thrilled to see you, finally."

Sybil led him up a flight of stairs to the guest bedrooms. Walking in the hallways, Matthew could see that the inside was just as luxurious as the outside of the mansion. Mrs. Levinson certainly had no hesitation when it came to spending money on vintage paintings, exotic artifacts, and silk upholsteries.

"Even dear old Violet is here? How did they ever coax her to get on the plane?"

Sybil smiled mischievously. "I think she wanted to come see how 'the American grandmother' did up the new house. She'd absolutely love it if the party were a disaster."

"I'm sure it won't be." Matthew chuckled as Sybil directed him into the second bedroom from the landing: a large, square room that smelled like his lavender-scented invitation. He placed his suitcase on the bed.

"Come on, let's go outside."

Once they were out on the deck, Matthew saw the cluster of familiar faces at sitting at the far end on Adirondack chairs, drinking drinking cocktails and martinis. The men wore khakis and jackets without ties; the women looked immaculate in their tea-length dresses and patent pumps. The only unfamiliar person was an auburn-haired woman with eyes like Cora's; she could only be the famous Martha Levinson, who now turned to look at Matthew.

Sybil nudged him, mouthing, "_Go on." _

He cleared his throat and walked toward them with Sybil at his side. It felt so strange to see his extended family for the first time in a year, and in America, of all places. Twelve months ago, he had moved to London after getting a job with his current law firm, and it seemed that their lives would naturally begin to drift apart. Sometimes, Matthew missed them, Mary in particular, though he emphatically told himself, as soon as he ever thought of her, to forget her as a figment of his past.

Now, they all stood up from their chairs and greeted him with warm smiles. Matthew's eyes flickered immediately to Mary, who stood with Edith a ways away from the rest of the party. Their backs were turned away from him as they looked onto the sandy beach and the crashing waves only a few hundred yards away. They were chatting to each other quietly. Mary wore a dress of white chiffon that blew with the salty breeze. He could see the veins on her legs as she stood in her cream-coloured heels and—

"Matthew! We've been waiting for you to get here! Long time, no see! You've been well?" Robert wringed his hand.

Cora hugged him. "You have no idea how glad we all are that you made it here! After last Christmas, we were afraid you'd come up with any excuse to avoid us. But I'm so happy that you're here."

Even Violet stood to greet him. "Matthew," she said in her quaint accent, "I hope they aren't working you too hard at the law firm? You look twenty pounds thinner."

"I'm fine, and very glad to see all of you again," Matthew said, beaming at everyone.

Violet turned to Martha. "It's a pity we don't do formal introductions anymore…Well, this is Matthew, and you know all about him already, of course."

Martha smiled warmly. "And I'm sure he's heard all about me. How do you do, Matthew? Isn't that what you British say? With all of you here, I feel like a foreigner in my own country!"

Matthew grinned, deciding to like her as he took her outstretched hand. "Mrs. Levinson, thank you so much for having me here."

Mary and Edith turned around and came towards him now with ethereal airs. He couldn't hide from himself the feeling of regret and silent heartache that he felt as he looked at Mary's face again.

"Mary," he half-whispered. "And Edith…Wow, you both look absolutely stunning."

"Matthew, don't you just love it here?" Edith laughed, giving his hand a quick squeeze.

Mary's eyes found his now, and they seemed to share a deluge of emotions: delight, wistfulness, regret, forgiveness, caution…There was no blame between them; there was no use in assigning blame. They were here, in this moment, and simply happy to be standing on the same dock, by the same ocean.

"Congratulations, Mary," he said in a voice that was bare audible. _Louder, _he thought to himself.

"It means so much to me that you're here, really," Mary said, giving him a swift kiss on the cheek.

"I'm so happy to see you again." He smiled and she smiled back at him and just like that, they knew they would be alright again.

The doorbell rang and the guests began trickling in: gaggles of smartly-dressed people who all seemed to know each other, if not directly, then through a distant relative or a close friend. Martha Levinson maneuvered her spry figure throughout the rooms, directly the guests out to the tables on the back lawn, supervising the dining staff and DJ she had hired for the night, keeping everything in control. All this, of course, was to Violet's chagrin as she sat and asked Matthew wryly and rhetorically, "Should I tell the Johnsons' toddler to smash a wine bottle and see how she deals with it?" Matthew shook his head and laughed, eyeing the wine rack warily.

The dinner began with Martha hitting her glass daintily with a spoon and calling for everyone's attention. The communal chatter died down.

"Tonight, we're all here to celebrate Mary, my oldest granddaughter. After graduating cum laude from Brown University, she's going to study at Oxford University this fall. Let's all raise our glasses to Mary to say how proud we all are of her accomplishments, and to express our best wishes for her future."

Violet, who sat between Matthew and Edith, muttered under her breath, "Hardly a _great _speech," though she did later stoop to compliment Martha on her "nice choice of caterers".

In retrospect, Matthew would have said the party was spectacular, but in that moment, everything was lackluster as he stared glumly at his prime rib, wondering about Mary and marveling at how much a year had distanced them. What did he know about her now? She had graduated from Brown and was going to Oxford to study English and History. She had broken off an engagement with Rich, her boyfriend in college, namely because she wanted "bigger and better things in life". Yet, there was so much about her that he didn't know anymore. Did she still love taking walks in the late night, when the world was sleepy? Did she still (sometimes) want to be an activist against world hunger? Did she still feel as uncertain about the future as he did? Was she still a tiny bit in love with him, _like he was with her?_

After dinner and coffee (tea for Violet), the guests began leaving as they had arrived, murmuring their blessings and congratulations to Mary on their way out.

The night had set its canopy of darkness over the beach. No one noticed Mary and Matthew as they slipped away from the hub of the party, each on his and her own whim. Matthew wanted to get away from the incessant good humor and laughter; it was infectious, but distracting, too. Mary merely wanted to see the ocean again before she had to leave in the morning on a plane back to England, before the summer sea could fade away.

They stood at opposite ends of the beachfront, as far away from the dinner tables as they could, utterly aware of the each other's presence. They heard the waves rolling in and back out, saw the froth and stray seashells gathering and receding, gathering and receding…

Matthew looked at Mary as she stood with her hair blowing back in the breeze, defiant and graceful. He walked towards her and stood beside her, assuming the same stance and staring out at the water.

For a long while, they said not a word to each other, but held their champagne glasses and inhaled deeply. The music, the muffled chatter, and the gentle crash of waves was enough for conversation. Matthew fixed his gaze ahead, but couldn't fix his thoughts on something as pure and blue as the ocean. He thought only of the silent girl beside him, who had alabaster skin and wore a white dress that made her look angelic. Even though he had known Mary for years, she was still an enigma to him.

"You can talk, you know," Mary spoke, breaking their wall of silence. "You're not interrupting me or anything."

Matthew smiled, shifting his weight onto the tip of his toes. "So, you're off tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, but my plane doesn't leave until the day after."

"Straight to Oxford?"

"Actually, Aunt Rosamund is picking me up at Heathrow, and I might stay with her for a few days, do some shopping before I settle in and wait for term to start," she said. "Aren't you going back to London after this?"

"My flight doesn't leave for another couple of days. I'll probably go down to New York City tomorrow and stay the night, too."

"If you're up to leaving at seven in the morning after this riot, Grandma's driver can take us both."

"That sounds like a good idea, now that you mention it. If you don't mind me coming with you, of course."

"Of course not! I can get Grandma to book us hotel rooms, if that's alright with you."

Matthew turned to look at her, really look at her, and he could see in her eyes something that mirrored the truth in his own heart. "Mary," he said in a low voice, "Did you ever think that we could have been—"

"Yes. All the time." Her piercing eyes stared back at him.

"And what about now?"

Mary smiled sadly. "We've been through too much already. It couldn't possibly be that simple now."

A moment of silence hung in the air before the DJ chose the next song. When the chords struck up again, a familiar melody sounded across the beach: a song they listened to when they were younger, sitting on the Yorkshire hills and talking about what love was, flirting and hiding their hearts.

_We watch the season pull up its own stakes, and catch the last weekend of the last week_

"Before the gold and the glimmer have been replaced," Mary sang quietly, still with her wan smile. "Remember this?"

_Another sun-soaked season fades away_

Matthew held his hands out in front of her. "Dance with me?"

She put her arms around his neck and they swayed to the music, feeling the long-foregone closeness of their skin touching, their slow breaths, and the pounding of familiar hearts. Matthew clasped his hands around her waist, closing his eyes and inhaling the floral fragrance of her hair. It wasn't lavender. He knew this was a perfect moment, whatever that may be, and that these moments were the ones that life was lived for.

_You have stolen my heart_

The waves crashed behind them, creating a counter-melody to the song.

_Clear liquor and cloudy-eyed, too early to say goodnight_

They kicked their shoes off and tossed the empty champagne flutes onto the sand. When their bodies touched again, they could no longer fight impulse. Their lips touched and the fiery shade of Mary's lipstick seemed to ignite something that burned only between them.

_You have stolen my heart_

The sand felt tingly beneath their feet, and this feeling flowed up from their toes to their entire bodies. Maybe, this was love; maybe, this was passion; maybe, this was nothing. Matthew took her by the hand and spun her around. She staggered and fell back into his arms. He laughed and picked her up, twirling her around and around across the farthest reach of the shore, into the shallow tide.

_I watch you spin around in your highest heels_

"You are the best one, of the best ones…" Matthew sang along, burying his face into her hair and smiling stupidly.

The song faded out and they clung to each other, eyes closed, lips brushing. In this moment, they were gods. The silence and the crashing of waves brought them back to the present.

"Mary?"

She smiled, throwing her arms around his neck. "We'll see each other in London."

Matthew nodded. All that he had to do now was let go of the past entirely. _Would it really be so difficult?_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: This is the first continuation chapter of my original one-shot, "Stolen". At this point, I honestly don't have a coherent plot in mind. I've changed the title to "The Years of Our Lives", inspired by the classic film, "The Best Years of Our Lives". As I said in the description, this will probably become a long-term project of mine and involve snippet scenes of many fictional years. Still confused? Think "One Day" by David Nicholls...but not really. =)_

* * *

_Still August._

It was always the same memory that haunted his dreams, distorted and made more terrible by the deepest of sleep. It was the night of Boxing Day, more than a year ago, driving home from the Crawleys' mansion in Yorkshire—slippery highway paved with nothing but ice; cold, biting winds that whistled an eerie tune through the car windows lined with frost; squeaking windshield wipers that couldn't keep up with the snow and hail balls beating down around him; Lavinia sitting beside him in the passenger seat.

Even in the haziness of a dream, her face was pale like the falling snow and her eyes were colder than any measurable temperature. Their mutual silence was louder than the roar of passing cars and the jocular, childish Christmas tunes blaring on the radio.

Her figure loomed out, darker and more terrible than ever, in his mind. She slapped her hand on radio's power button, forcing complete silence upon them. "Don't pretend, Matthew," she said.

His grip on the steering wheel wavered, making the car snap back and forth for a split second. "Pretend what?"

"You know damn well what." Her words fell like stones. "You're still in love with her."

Matthew looked ahead adamantly, forcing himself to focus on the road.

She laughed bitterly, maniacally. "It's not that hard to believe, is it? You've known each other for so long, you know everything about each other, you're both attractive enough to be models and smart as hell. No wonder you'd pick her over me…How could I even begin to compete?"

"I didn't _pick _her, Lavinia." Matthew's temper rose. "I don't—"

"Listen to yourself. An idiot could tell you're lying." Her anger seemed to give way to sadness as she broke into hysterical sobs. "But you're engaged to _me_. Don't I have a right to be jealous?"

"That's right! _You're _my fiancé, not Mary. I've told you that I love you, and we're going to get married. Nothing's going to change that."

The only warmth in the car came from the heat of their angry words.

"Stop the car," Lavinia said abruptly.

"This is the middle of a highway."

"There's an exit coming up. See the sign?"

"No, we have to get home. I'm not going out that exit to God knows where."

"Fine. Put on the lights and pull over."

"You're being unreasonable. You've had too much to drink."

"No, I haven't. Bear left and get to the exit. I can't sit in the same car as you any longer." She groped for the steering wheel in near darkness.

"Lavinia, don't." Matthew kept one hand on the wheel and used the other to pry her hand away.

She grabbed his cheek with her free hand, forcing him to look her in the eye. "Don't. Tell me what to do." Her hand hit the steering wheel and Matthew looked ahead as everything started spinning.

"Stop the car!" she shrieked.

"Lavinia!"

"Matthew!"

Her screams turned into laughter and back into screams.

Matthew closed his eyes as his head hit the side of the car. "Oh, bloody bloody hell—" All that floated in his mind now was a clamor of scraping, screeching—a mosaic of darkness that beat his body until a deathly silence took over, bringing with it a background of pure, blinding white.

A disembodied voice rang out through the haze. "You've done it now. You've killed her."

"Is she really d—"

"Dead."

"But it wasn't me. I didn't—"

"If not you, who else?" The voice was cruel and biting.

All of a sudden, he was arguing with the voice, and a hand reached out, grabbing him around the neck and strangling him, squeezing the air out of his lungs— "No, no, no," he sputtered, gasping for air.

Mathew was waking now and thrashing on the backseat of Mrs. Levinson's black Lincoln.

"Matthew, are you alright?" Mary's voice cut through the monochrome of the hospital room in his dream. Even as he woke up, Matthew could still smell the pungent cleanness of the ward, a scent that boded only emptiness. "No, no…"

"Matthew, it's me, Mary."

He opened his eyes and squinted up at her. His gaze sharpened and he realized that what had just seemed so real and terrible was no longer. "Mary, I…sorry…" He shook his head, foregoing any explanation.

She squeezed his hand. "Bad dream." It wasn't a question.

Matthew nodded but said nothing.

"You fell asleep somewhere in New Haven, and we're nearly to the Holland Tunnel now."

"Goodness. I guess I was tired from the party last night."

"Well, I figured I'd have plenty of time to sleep on the plane tomorrow."

"Good plan."

She smiled nervously, resting her hand on his arm. Matthew could tell, from the odd expression on her face, that she guessed the horror he awoke from; there could be no doubt of it. That car crash had killed Lavinia, and Matthew had told Mary everything afterwards: Lavinia's bitterness and jealousy, their argument, the jagged ice that set the car hurtling out of the highway…Mary had wept and together, they knew it was their guilt. Though it had happened more than a year ago, the memory still haunted them both, and Matthew began to think that their reconciliation last night was merely a moment of euphoria, a respite brought on by liberal amounts of champagne and summer's chafing heat.

Mary leaned against him. "Do you mind?"

Matthew shook his head and brought his arm around her shoulder. They sat quietly like this, feeling a mutual warmth, but thinking stray thoughts unknown to the other. Matthew looked out the window, afraid to close his eyes for fear of seeing Lavinia's pallid face, her forehead and cheeks scarred with jagged cuts—jagged cuts like the hailstones that beat on the window that night—Matthew caught his eyelids drifting together and forced himself to look outside at the billboards that grew more and more numerous as the car got closer to the city. They had passed through the Holland Tunnel already.

"Don't miss the Broadway Revival of Phantom of the Opera—Get your tickets today!" screamed one billboard. Another flashed, "Memphis: A New Musical—Listen to your soul!" The noise and the flamboyant colors reminded him that he would have to return to London soon, a city much greyer but even more self-important, in his view, than New York.

Mary's voice cut into his thoughts again. "I've never actually seen a real Broadway show."

"No, me neither. I've never been in New York long enough to go to one."

"I suspect West End shows just aren't the same."

Matthew shrugged. "I don't think there's supposed to be much of a difference."

"It's just brilliant to think that these geniuses—Rodgers and Hammerstein, Cole Porter and Sondheim—that they lived and breathed the air here," Mary said with a wistful look of awe.

"What? You've never met them? Do you mean to say your father hasn't managed to invite them to one of his corporate charity parties?"

Mary smiled, rolling her eyes. "Seeing an actual Broadway show is the closest I'll get!"

"When does your flight leave?"

"Not until tomorrow morning."

"Well, I was just thinking, perhaps we can go to a show tonight, if you're up for it."

"Really? I'd love that!"

"We can argue over the show once we get to the ticket booths, alright?"

She laughed and leaned back onto his chest.

Matthew fell silent. In truth, he would prefer the noise and vicarious emotion of a musical to his own thoughts and misgivings that ran rampant in his mind. When they got to the hotel (Hilton Garden Inn on Sixth Avenue) that Mrs. Levinson had reserved for them, would they keep their two rooms, or would they drink a few extra glasses of wine with dinner and stumble, half-awake and embracing, into the same room? As much as he wanted to, Matthew could still hear Lavinia's cold, self-pitying voice, "What have you done, Matthew Crawley?"

They arrived now as the driver stopped the car by the front door. They got out, stretching and yawning. It was nearly noon, and they had been sitting for more than three hours. A bellboy came to take their luggage.

Mary motioned the driver to roll down his window. "John, thank you so much for driving us down."

"It's my job."

"Well, it was quite a drive. Have a safe trip back."

"And you too, back to England." He put his sunglasses on and waved to Mary as he drove away.

Mary turned to Matthew. "Grandma wanted to book us for the Waldorf Astoria, but I didn't see the point."

"Thank God she didn't."

"Why? It's not like you'd have to pay for it."

"I haven't been around 'your people' for a while now. I'd feel a bit out of place."

"They all miss you terribly," Mary joked. "Every time they ask about you, they're always in tears."

Matthew laughed as they followed the bellboy into the lobby.

Mary unzipped her handbag, taking out her purse. "Grandma absolutely insists on paying for both of us, so don't argue."

"I'll remember to thank her."

She smiled. "We can check in now, rest up for a bit, have lunch, and wander off to Broadway before it gets dark?"

"Do you think we can actually get tickets? Most people book weeks before an actual show."

Mary waved her credit card. "It's all on Grandma. I'm sure we could find some outrageously expensive scalper tickets."

After they checked in, the elevator took them to the fifteenth floor, where their adjacent rooms overlooked the shorter skyscrapers of Sixth Avenue.

"Half an hour?" Mary said, glancing at her watch and swiping her key card on the door.

Matthew nodded. "See you then."

They lunched at a little restaurant with a long Italian name a couple of blocks away. Mary claimed to have eaten there as a child when she came to New York with her parents on business trips. Matthew reluctantly allowed her to pay for everything with Mrs. Levinson's limitless credit card. Now that they had a purpose and a destination, conversation was easy and, ironically, aimless. After lunch, they began walking towards Broadway, which was a little more than a mile away: "Much better to walk," Mary had said.

"I'll bet you want to see West Side Story," said Matthew, as they weaved through throngs of people and taxis.

"No, I've seen that at the West End. Twice."

"Chicago, then."

"Wrong again!"

"Evita?"

"Not a bad guess," Mary smiled. "If I tell you, you must promise not to laugh at me."

"The Lion King."

Mary shook her head. "Beauty and the Beast," she said, laughing already.

Matthew chuckled. "Really? Why?"

"You promised not to laugh!"

"You're laughing."

"It's rather a childhood favorite of mine. I absolutely dreamed of becoming a Disney princess, and I suppose Belle was my ideal."

"I don't think I've seen it since my preschool days."

Marry grinned. "Come on, what would you pick? Something much more high-brow, no doubt."

"Well, I didn't really think about it, since I was going to let you decide."

"Always the gentleman, aren't we?"

Matthew smirked. "Hardly. Until you get back to London, we're still celebrating your graduation and your future ventures to do great things."

"Oh, stop it," Mary rolled her eyes. "Beauty and the Beast, then? No arguments?"

"Not one!" Matthew pointed ahead at a elephantine billboard advertisement for the "Beauty and the Beast" box office. "We should try over there."

They walked over together, Mary brandishing her grandmother's credit card and Matthew grinning at their childish happiness. And yet, why did he still feel so uneasy?

When they exited the theater three hours later, Mary was smiling through joyful tears. Half a moon began to fade into its place on the darkening sky lit with city lights and stray stars.

"Don't lie, Matthew. You were about to cry when Gaston and his gang wanted to take Belle's old father away to the asylum."

Matthew smiled but didn't acknowledge her statement. "It was wonderfully acted," he said.

"The music—Don't you just love Broadway music?"

"Favorite song?"

"The last one, definitely the last one."

"The love song…of course."

"You know, it's the feeling of being able to watch something and know that everything is exactly the way it should be, that the sad bits won't matter by the end because everything always turns out right. If only…Well, never mind."

_If only life were like that, _Matthew thought, finishing her thought silently. He pulled out his cellphone to check the time. "It's barely five o'clock. Where do you want to go?"

"We could go anywhere. That's what I love about big cities. Everything is literally within walking distance."

"Come on then, which of the usual tourist attractions is it? Central Park? Time Square? Rockefeller Center?"

Mary craned her head at all the looming skyscrapers. "I'd much rather take a stroll down Greenwich Village, or somewhere quaint, and maybe stop to have a quiet dinner. Not very exciting, I know."

"Shall we?" Matthew smiled and offered her his arm; like a gentleman of the early 20th century would do, he mused.

She took it and they started walking aimlessly ahead.

Matthew felt more at ease with her in the midst of a million other people. "What's the official plan for Oxford?"

"Not much, only writing, studying, being asked if my family owns Crawley's, and then getting snubbed by everyone who thinks I bought my way in."

"I bet they won't once they find out you're a Rhodes scholar."

"Then they'll just hate me more."

"When I first found out we were going to Uni together, that's how I felt, too, and then—"

"—You were thrilled when I transferred to Brown."

Matthew laughed. "If that's what you want to believe."

They now came to a small restaurant not unlike the one where they had lunch earlier. In fact, Matthew thought that most of the non-chain restaurants in New York had the same aura—an air of self-proclaimed uniqueness and a will to stand out with mellow lights and a sophisticated, brooding attitude. This particular restaurant was called Northern Lights, as heralded by a sweeping, brush-scripted plaque.

"Odd name for a restaurant," Mary remarked.

"I wonder if it feels like Antarctica inside." Matthew held the door open for her.

They were ushered into a fashionably dark, yellow-lighted corner. The waiter explained that the name "Northern Lights" came from the different shades of lighting used throughout the restaurant. "Like the real northern lights, you know?" he said, gesticulating.

After a few minutes, the waiter came back to take their orders.

"Oysters Rockefeller for the appetizer? Both? Alrighty. And the main course? Sir? Okay, Atlantic salmon...and you, ma'am? Yes, the hearts of lettuce are very much in season, and the Venetian chicken? Fine, fine…And what to drink?"

"The Cabernet."

"The Chardonnay."

They had spoken at the same time.

The waiter smiled. "Which one is it?"

"Both." Mary winked at Matthew. "It's on Grandma."

"I would warn you that I get drunk easily, but you know that already," said Mary, as the waiter walked away.

Matthew grinned. "These odd Brits with their funny accents, he must be thinking."

"Americans adore us."

The waiter came back to deliver their two bottles and two accompanying wine glasses. "Enjoy," he said, setting them down with a clink.

"Start with the white?" Matthew opened the bottle of Chardonnay and poured two glass-fulls.

Mary picked up her glass and rested it before her lips. "A toast?"

"To Mary Crawley and her big, brilliant future—"

"Oh, come on, you can do better than stealing lines from my grandmothers."

Matthew sighed in feigned exasperation. "To scholarship and academia; insert Latin motto here—"

"Stop it."

He paused for a moment before raising his glass. "To life, and whatever it may bring us."

"Much better. I'll drink to that."

Neither of them had a great tolerance for alcohol, and after nearly a bottle each, they felt comfortably light-headed, slurringly sentimental, and intellectual to the point of intoxication.

"What are we, really?" asked Matthew, as though speaking to an oracle.

"What are we? Gods? Lovers? Philosophers?"

"Fools. To be reincarnated into cows."

They laughed.

"Hardly well-suited," said Mary.

"I still hate you sometimes."

"And I, you."

"We're a complication," said Matthew.

"An entanglement."

"A badly written sequel."

"A spilt glass of wine."

They laughed again.

"What if we lived here, you know, in New York? The city of dreams paved with golden streets—"

"It hasn't been since 1890."

"Do you ever think, Mary, what it would be like to live somewhere where nobody knew anything about us?"

"Isn't that what everyone says at some point in their lives?"

"Everyone says it because it's true at some point in their lives."

"Actually, yes, I do." Mary sipped more wine, tilting her head, which had already become dizzy with drink.

"It's the past that haunts us, Mary. And we can't get over it because everyone around us knows."

They were no longer eating and there was no longer any semblance of reserve between them. They spoke freely, too freely, not like prospective lovers, but like solitary hearts seeking any commiserating listener.

"I know," echoed Mary. "You've got the ghost of Lavinia Swire, and I've got the ghost—well, not the ghost, not really—of Richard Carlisle—_Sir _Richard Carlisle…he got knighted…"

"Terrible, what happened to Lavinia. Thank God I'm moving to London. Soon. I can't even drive a car without wanting to hit myself."

"And don't think for a moment I don't blame myself."

Matthew put his glass down. "Why the hell is it we always end up talking about this?"

"We're drunk, aren't we?"

Somehow, hey stumbled back to the hotel after a dinner of mostly wine. Coming out of the elevator, Mary grabbed Matthew's wrist. "Stay with me," she mumbled.

Matthew, bleary-eyed and staggering, let Mary drag him to her room, and watched as she fumbled to find her key. As she went to insert her key into the doorknob, Matthew laid his hand on top of hers. "Mary…no, this isn't, it's not right…"

"I know," she slurred, standing on tiptoes and bringing her face closer to his. "Please, for once, let's pretend we're both too drunk to be rational," she whispered.

That moment was their moment of clarity. It soon passed.

Matthew's pounding heart and sluggish brain got the better of him as he placed his trembling hands against her collarbone and kissed her urgently, passionately.

"Just pretending." Mary's voice trailed as she pressed down on the doorknob and they staggered together for a few steps before tumbling onto the bed.

Words soon became as useless as the clothes they threw on the floor. They weren't really drunk; intoxication was merely a semblance for this deep, irrational longing. Matthew abandoned all rationality when he let his hands roam freely along the protruding, almost jagged lines of her neck, her ribcage, her waist…Her short ragged breaths fell on his skin like hot coals, burning his insides, charring his fingertips. They clung to each other tightly, as though this moment of delirium would be their last. Yet, the night was still young…

When he woke the next morning, Matthew found himself tangled within several layers of sheets, lying eagle-spread and very much alone on the King-size bed. Wincing at the rhythmic throbbing in his temple, he rolled over and squinted at the alarm clock: 7 AM. He glanced at the other side of the bed, where Mary had lain before. The pillow retained a fresh indent of her head, and a few stray brown hairs had fallen onto the sheets. Matthew stood up, but sat back down on the edge of the bed when a blinding blackness ricocheted through his head. He tried not to think as he glimpsed his naked body in the mirror.

Matthew saw a half-crumpled sheet of Hilton writing paper lying on the desk by the windows. Walking over and unfurling it, he could see that it was Mary's handwriting.

_Darling Matthew, life isn't a Broadway musical. –M _

"I know," Matthew whispered to no one, letting the note fall on the floor beside him. He looked out the window at the sunrise city, seeing the tiny yellow taxis below, wondering which backseat she sat in and where she was headed.


End file.
